


Winter Winds

by Shayvaalski



Series: Outsong [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Established Relationship, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn, Porn With Plot, Post Reichenbach, Series, Slashy, just porn, lots of porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:58:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What isn't happening between Sebastian Moran and John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winter Winds

**Winter Winds**

 

_oh the winter winds_

_litter london with lonesome hearts_

 

Ten weeks into it, John comes home with hands full of shopping to find Sebastian in the middle of the sitting room (the furniture is half-rearranged, which makes John seethe for a long breathless moment, how _dare_ he), standing with his head bowed and his arms stiff at his sides. He’s breathing slow, and he doesn’t look up until John drops the bags on the table with a good deal more force than is really necessary. 

John expects him to say something. Sebastian isn’t like Sherlock, doesn’t get into hour-long snits and sulks and brown studies; he’s quiet, but he usually has a word or three when John comes home. Today he says nothing, just fixes gray-green eyes on a spot just above John’s left shoulder and nods short and sharp. 

An unpleasant feeling starts to climb up John’s spine; the other man’s face is carefully blank and his stance military-familiar. 

“Bastian—” he starts, taking a step forward. 

And Seb flinches. 

It’s such a small motion that John almost misses it, that tightening of mouth and flicker of eyelid. John’s breath catches; he’s seen that sustained, distant pain before, the second time he met Sebastian, on his own face in the mirror. John forgets that he has long since decided where the boundaries between him and his new flatmate are (boundaries, after Sherlock, have become important and non-negotiable) and takes the five steps that will carry him to Sebastian. 

John is cold, and heat is radiating off the man, and he’s not sure which one of them moves first, whether Seb is warming him or he is cooling Seb. It barely matters. They stand there for a long moment, chest to chest, then Sebastian draws a shallow breath and says, “Johnny, I—”

“Shut up,” says John, fierce, into the hollow of Sebastian’s throat. “Just. Shut up. It’s fine.”

A pause and then Seb’s hands ease over Johns back, cradle the weight of his skull. 

“All right,” he murmurs. “All right.”

 

_oh the warmth in your eyes_

_swept me into your arms_

 

Mostly Sebastian sleeps on the couch, or on the floor next to it; like John he’s slept in worse places (he tells a story, one lazy afternoon, about falling asleep in a tree waiting for a tigress, which John doesn’t believe even when Seb pulls off his shirt to show him the scars) and the floor is at least smooth, the rug soft. And Seb doesn’t sleep much, anyway. 

And of course he couldn’t sleep in Sherlock’s bed. It’s like both of them pretend the flat only has one bedroom—or that it’s meant to have an extra-large closet with a bed dedicated purely to storing the belongings of its previous occupant. John can look at the door without swallowing hard now; sometimes he catches Seb gazing evenly at it from the kitchen sink. On the rare occasions Sebastian is out, John will press his palm against the frame, lightly, as if in passing. 

He misses Sherlock.

But he _likes_ Sebastian. Really and truly likes him, and trusts him to a degree which is probably stupid, given the whole rifle-trained-on-his-head thing. They get along. Seb cooks better than Mrs. Hudson, who coos and tuts over him, and he cooks for her, and for their new downstairs neighbors (who they actually keep more than a month, what with the suddenly decreased frequency of explosions). He goes out running and drags John with him, and they come back exhausted and shaking the sweat out of their hair. Evenings they spend in companionable silence—Seb reads more than John expected, and is remarkably prone to attempting to tell John all about what he’s reading, and to falling asleep with a book on his chest, and to moving his lips as he reads. 

John watches him and tries not to let on that he’s watching, and goes up to bed around ten every night, and it’s all very comfortable, and normal, and it works, even though it shouldn’t. And the next time he looks up it’s been four months, and Seb is standing in the doorway of his room.

“Couch is too small,” he says, perfunctory, before tossing his pillow towards the bed, and John just stares. “Come on, shove over.” 

John shoves over. Seb grunts, satisfied, and climbs in. He sleeps bare-chested, in loose thin trousers, and John already knew this so it shouldn’t be so surprising. There is a perfectly respectable amount of space between them, and John has shared beds before, in the army and at school, _and this is no different._

Sebastian reaches over and snaps out the light (and how the hell did he manage to end up on the side of the bed with the nightstand), settles down into mattress and pillow. “Floor’s fuckin’ cold,” he says, and that’s all the explanation he gives, broad back to John and breathing already slow. John licks his lips, scrubs a hand over his face, turns over. He expects it to take him a long time to fall asleep.

This does not turns out to be the case. 

 

_was it love_

_or fear of the cold_

_that led us through the night?_

 

Having Sebastian in his bed is sheer animal comfort, nothing more. He sleeps easily but light, half-rousing whenever John gets up to leave for work. Seb comes to bed every night, and for a while he still offers an explanation about the couch or the cold but after a month he’s dropping down next to John with a stretch and a yawn, perfectly at ease. John startles himself by getting used to it, and by being almost relieved not to be so alone at night anymore. And Sebastian seems to feel the same way. 

So it’s not really a surprise when, eventually, on a Friday night, Seb shifts and rolls and slides a hand over John’s hip. John’s not even sure if Sebastian’s all the way awake; certainly all his motions are lazy and heavy with sleep. His breathing is still even. Slow. John knows the rhythm of Seb’s breath by now and it stays steady even as Seb pulls himself close. Presses his nose into the nape of John’s neck. Settles his belly and hips and chest against John’s back. Sighs. Relaxes. Really it’s only a bit strange that Seb hasn’t tried to spoon him sooner, because he must be used to not sleeping alone—John, who is barely awake himself, cuts that thought off as soon as it starts, supplanting it with the small, amused resignation to being the smaller spoon. 

He thinks he feels Seb’s fingers move against his hip, drawing him closer, right before he falls back to sleep. 

 

John waits for Sebastian to bring it up the next day, to smirk and raise a blond eyebrow, but he says nothing so John follows suit. Goes to work. Comes home, and they go down the pub for an hour or two. Greg’s finally stopped looking at Seb as if he might bite, which is new and which John appreciates, and he buys the DI a drink without saying why. They go to bed, not exactly together, and the next morning John wakes up curled against Sebastian’s back. 

 

This continues for a month, give or take. 

 

And in time it becomes ordinary, just like having Sebastian in his bed is ordinary, and they absolutely do not talk about it because there’s not really anything to say. Animal comfort, John reminds himself every night. Like hunkering down with someone in a bunker, pressed knee to hip to shoulder, bellies to the ground and leaning in. That’s it. That’s all.

Until on a weekday night in March Sebastian stretches against him, and licks a long stripe up John’s neck. John sucks in a breath, shocked, his eyes snapping open, and Seb chuckles and kisses the crook of his shoulder. His hand slides under John’s shirt, over his belly, light and almost teasing. John is suddenly very aware of Sebastian’s hips pressed close against him, of their small intent movements. Fingers drag over his sternum, his ribs; beneath Sebastian’s lips pressing kisses to the skin below his ear is the threat of teeth. John makes a noise he doesn’t intend to, tips his head back, and is something between gratified and horror-stricken when Seb moans. 

“What the _hell_ are you doing.”

A huff of air against his cheek. “Hush, Johnny.”

“Bastian—” 

Teeth, against the big muscle in his neck, and John gasps. “Told you to hush.” 

“I—” But Sebastian’s hips are rolling into him now, and John can—oh Christ—feel Seb’s cock hard against the tops of his thighs. Can feel the pound of his heart, the pull of his breath. They’re both awake now, no excuse, and Sebastian’s fingers curl against his chest, tug him closer, begin to push his teeshirt further towards _off._ John groans, hands clenched into the sheets, and his hips buck. 

“ _Hey_ there.” Sebastian reverses direction so fast it leaves John spinning and breathless, hand slipping down over ribs-stomach-pelvis to dip beneath the waistband of his trousers. His mouth keeps moving, kissing and then biting and then oh god, _sucking_ , and John groans again, pushing back against Sebastian, who laughs. John has not been touched like this in over a year, Sebastian’s hand easing inch by inch into his pants—John has _never_ been touched like this, another man’s cock grinding into the curve of his arse as his own begins to harden and he wants and he can’t and this _is not happening._

“Seb, I—” But Seb is kissing the corner of his mouth, propped up on one elbow for better purchase, a little of the warmth at his back gone so that the cool air strikes, and John turns his head and is lost. Sebastian tastes like gunsmoke and cinnamon, the same way he smells, and his mouth is hot and insistent. He’s laughing again, all muscle and friendly ego and a hum that echoes through their chests, and John should shove him away but oh, Christ, his hand is on John’s cock. All he can do is press his hips into that hand. 

Sebastian bites at his lip and then slides his tongue into John’s mouth with the exactingly lewd precision of someone who can do _other_ things with that tongue and wants it known and the breath catches in John’s throat. Catches and holds and his vision is already starting to go spangled around the edges. Seb’s thumb flicks over the head of his cock and his hand slides down it and back up, slowly and then again, faster, a little twist at the end that leaves John groaning and knowing he’s going to humiliate himself by coming too soon—

—there’s an ongoing murmur in his ear, against his mouth, his skin, Sebastian saying, “Come on, Johnny, come on, fuck—” and John _writhes,_ hands scrabbling to pull Seb closer. He is losing track of all the places they are touching, and Seb’s fingers twist _down_ and John’s hips kick _up_ and Sebastian moans with him as he comes. 

John lies there with his chest heaving, giddy and shocked. It’s not until he hears Seb grunt and feels him shudder and curl a little against John’s back that he realizes that the other man has been pulling himself off, hand working his cock fast and harsh. He’s a little relieved (John ignores the thread of disappointment at the bottom of the relief) that he isn’t expected to help, that there’s no compunction on him to do anything except lie here. 

And in a minute to roll over and—as Sebastian’s arm goes around his shoulders—set his nose into the curve of Seb’s neck, and pretend to be asleep. 

 

 

_oh the shame that sent me off_

_from the god that i once loved_

_was the same that sent me into your arms_

 

 

Midnight. Both of them soaked with sweat, lazy and sated against the pillows. 

“How long were you with him?” 

“Five years. More or less.”

The silence is so long and shocked that it appalls them both. 

“Five _years._ But he was a—” John cuts it off. Murderer. Lunatic. Psychopath. 

Sebastian’s mouth tightens and he tucks his chin down against his chest. “Yeah, well. Love makes you fucking stupid, Johnny.” 

John can tell he hadn’t meant to say it because those wet-rock eyes (which are grey in the darkness) flick over to him and then away, long-lashed. Sebastian has the prettiest damn lashes, of all things, and John splays a hand over his chest, over the scars from the tiger and from Jim. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Fuck off.” There’s no heat to his voice; it’s almost amused and John swallows down the words _I loved Sherlock too._ Sebastian already knows, anyway. 

 

 

In bed Sebastian is a noisy fuck. John can’t decide if it’s exasperating or endearing or a twisted combination of both but he runs his goddamn mouth all the bloody time. Even against John’s skin and his lips and—other places. Seb keeps mum all day, doesn’t even look at him sideways, because they’re both agreed without speaking that nothing’s happening, but at night he gasps and curses and murmurs, “Jesus fuck, Johnny, your goddamn mouth, lower—there. Yeah. _Yeah._ Christ, men must’ve fucking lined _up_ to be part of your unit—” 

John tolerates this until it gets either truly ridiculous or truly unsettling ( _did you want Sherlock like this? all pale and moaning underneath you, that white fucking neck under your mouth_ ) at which point he punches Sebastian hard in the ribs, which Seb seems to enjoys enough to shut up.

 

 

They tear at each other sometimes and it’s brutal, leaving bruises and long scrapes that never quite bleed, gasping, slamming bodies into the mattress and pinning wrists to the wall. John gives as good as he gets despite Sebastian having six bloody inches on him, driving his knee up and into Seb’s chest so that the air goes out of him—but Seb bites. Like he’s an actual tiger, going straight for John’s neck and throat.  

It’s a giant fucking turn-on, if John’s going to be honest with himself (John is not going to be honest with himself) but it’s also more of a risk than he’s comfortable with because the marks are obvious, livid red-purple against his skin.

“Bastian, be careful!” John twists away from him a little, away from Seb’s mouth at the dip between neck and shoulder. It’s the closest they’ve ever come to acknowledging what’s going on, that John has to go to work and people can’t know. Seb looses, grins crook-mouthed at him. 

“Johnny. I’m _always_ careful.” His voice is a purr and he licks the already-bruising spot; John shivers and lets him, and groans under his teeth when he bears down again.

The next morning John pulls his shirt on and it covers the bruise so exactly that he has a fleeting image of Moriarty making sure Sebastian knows where he can and cannot bite. It’s a thought he dismisses, letting it slide away like rain down a window. 

 

 

_and my head told my heart_

_let love grow_

 

 

The afternoon Seb drops to his knees in front of John’s chair they’ve both been drinking. Seb’s a little wild around the eyes, grinning a bit too wide, but otherwise he’s swung clear of John, keeping what John sometimes thinks of as a safe distance between them. His hands curl into fists, watching Sebastian, remembering a quiet night and a thrown punch, and the last thing he expects is the thump of flesh hitting floor and a wicked grin and Seb’s mouth at his thigh. 

It’s too early in the day is John’s first shocked thought; his second is oh Jesus Christ _yes,_ Sebastian Moran is going to be the death of him. The third is more insistent, thudding like a heartbeat or a drum, _This is not happening. This cannot be happening. Here. Now._

Seb is already undoing his belt.

John’s hands are already reaching out for Seb’s hair, knotting into it, dragging him a little farther forwards so that by the time his flies are undone and his trousers shimmied off Sebastian’s mouth is pressed against his cock. 

The curtains are all drawn. It’s fine. 

Sebastian bites at his hipbones, pulls at the waistband of John’s pants with his teeth and then works them off over John’s hips, nudges between his legs, insistent and heavy-eyed with want. 

“Johnny.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus fuck, Johnny, I want to fucking _taste_ you.”

There’s something savage about his voice and John groans in response, tightens his grip on Sebastian’s hair until it has to hurt. Sunlight catches the corner of Seb’s mouth, the line of his jaw, turns his teeshirt a diffuse and faded blue. He licks up John’s cock, slowly, almost luxuriously, and then he _hums_ , the bastard, and John makes a noise like “Gngh.”

A laugh, and then Sebastian takes a breath and slides his mouth over John's cock, tongue flicking at the head. John’s hips jerk up involuntarily and his hands unclench and clench, holding Seb there, pushing at him; he frees one hand enough to trace the line of Seb’s jaw, his—Christ—his hollowed cheek as he sinks deeper than John had expected. Practice. He must have had practice—Sebastian’s tongue rolls against the underside of his cock, rhythmic and lewd. John tries not to thrust up into him but he’s too much, too hot and intimate to stop himself and his hips jerk forward. Seb makes a choking noise and then another hum, oh God, and moves with him, one hand clenched into John’s arse and the other creeping up under his shirt to tweak and twist John’s nipple.

John is sinking down in his chair now, legs splayed around Sebastian and he watches, unable to look away, Seb’s mouth on his cock, the man’s eyes half-closed, breath coming hard through his nose as he sucks John off. Just watching him makes John twist and moan and tug at his hair again and again, and Sebastian makes a little whine in the back of his throat and drops the hand that had been on John’s chest between his own legs. 

He’s so damn worked up that he comes fast, with John’s cock in his mouth and Jesus _Christ_ but he would pay good money for the way Seb jerks and chokes and swallows and clutches at John’s arse, never pulling off. (John skids away from the thought that he would _also_ pay good money to have his mouth on Seb during a similar, if reversed, maneuver.) After that it’s a matter of seconds, not minutes, and John manages to gasp out Bastian’s name before he can’t hear or say much of anything anymore for the ringing in his ears. 

Bastian’s name. Not Sherlock’s. 

The fact that it was nearly the second one leaves John less shocked, less appalled (but more embarrassed, more conscious of Poor Etiquette) than it would have a year ago. Before Sebastian sitting back and grinning like a damn cat with a canary, running a thumb slowly over his lower lip: obscene. John frowns at him and Seb snorts; the frown slides into a little grin and they’re on equal ground again, Sebastian looking carefully away as John tugs his trousers back up. 

“C’mon,” says Seb, hands tucked into his pockets, casual and easy. “My turn to make dinner.”

It’s always Sebastian’s turn to make dinner. John has, by this time, stopped arguing, and he follows Seb into the kitchen, watching (with faint, quickly-denied appreciation because, after all, nothing happened, is happening or is going to happen) the muscled curve of his arse.

 

_and my heart told my head_

_this time no,_

_this time no._

**Author's Note:**

> I am massively, _massively_ indebted to a number of people: but first and foremost, just now, to Rainbrolly, whose lovely drunken John I stole from, and who came up with the phrase "friendly ego". For Soulbrother (who squawked) and J (who begged a little) and always always Blue, my best beloved and my nastiest beta. 
> 
> And everyone else, who wondered what was going on between the lines. 
> 
> Lyrics from "Winter Winds" by Mumford and Sons.


End file.
